.....

Face me from summer,
arrived in the bright cold
to be held and nourished
by the trickle of void's musicality
just above silence.


While the thickets seal their stems
melt command with response
so that when the flower of language drops off
there will be conception.


Tell me with the test of a limb's hinge
how much we are holding.
Trace clouds to size
the shape of the brow's
focus on aimless treasure.